XVIII

Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood by the chimney-piece in the drawing-room,

waiting for the doctor; they had left him with Emily, and stood facing each

other absorbed in thought, when the door opened, and the doctor entered.

Hubert said--

'What do you think, Doctor? Is she seriously ill?'

'There is nothing, so far as I can make out, organically the matter with

her, but the system is running down. She is very thin and weak. I shall

prescribe a tonic, but----'

'But what, doctor?'

'She seems to be suffering from extreme depression of spirits. Do you know

of any secret grief--any love affair? At her age, anything of that sort

fills the entire mind, and the consequences are often grave.'

'And supposing it were so, what would be your advice? Change of air and

scene?'

'Certainly.'

'Have you spoken to her on the subject?'

'Yes; but she says she will not leave Ashwood.'

'We cannot send her away by force. What would you advise us to do?'

'There's nothing to be done. We must hope for the best. There is no

immediate cause for fear.... But, by the way, she looks as if she suffered

from sleeplessness.'

'Yes, she does; but she has been ordered chloral. Any harm in that?'

'In her case, it is a necessity; but do you think she takes it?'

'Oh yes, she has been taking choral.'

The conversation paused; the doctor went over to the writing-table, wrote a

prescription, made a few remarks, and took his leave, announcing his

intention of returning that day fortnight.

Hubert said, and his tone implied reference to some anterior conversation,

'We are powerless in this matter. You see we can do nothing. We only

succeed in making ourselves unhappy; we do not change in anything. I am

wretchedly unhappy!'

'Believe me,' she said, raising her arms in a beautiful feminine movement,

'I do not wish to make you unhappy.'

'Then why do you persist? Why do you refuse to take the only step that may

lead us out of this difficulty?'

'How can you ask me? Oh, Hubert, I did not think you could be so cruel! It

would be a shameful action.'

It was the first time she had used his Christian name, and his face changed

expression.

'I cannot,' she said, 'and I will not, and I do not understand how you can

ask me--you who are so loyal, how can you ask me to be disloyal?'

'Spare me your reproaches. Fate has been cruel. I have never told you the

story of my life. I have suffered deeply; my pride has been humiliated, and

I have endured hunger and cold; but those sufferings were light compared to

this last misfortune.'

She looked at him with sublime pity in her eyes. 'I do not conceal from

you,' she said, 'that I love you very much. I, too, have suffered, and I

had thought for one moment that fate had vouchsafed me happiness; but, as

you would say--the irony of life.'

'Julia, do not say you never will?'

'We cannot look into the future. But this I can say--I will not do Emily

any wrong, and so far as is in my power I will avoid giving her pain. There

is only one way out of this difficulty. I must leave this house as soon as

I can persuade her to let me go.'

The door opened; involuntarily the speakers moved apart; and though their

faces and attitudes were strictly composed when Emily entered, she knew

they had been standing closer together.

'I'm afraid I'm interrupting you,' she said.

'No, Emily; pray do not go away. We were only talking about you.'

'If I were to leave every time you begin to talk about me, I should spend

my life in my room. I daresay you have many faults to find. Let me hear all

about your fresh discoveries.'

It was a thin November day: leaves were whirling on the lawn, and at that

moment one blew rustling down the window-pane. And, even as it, she seemed

a passing thing. Her face was like a plate of fine white porcelain, and the

deep eyes filled it with a strange and magnetic pathos; the abundant

chestnut hair hung in the precarious support of a thin tortoiseshell; and

there was something unforgetable in the manner in which her aversion for

the elder woman betrayed itself--a mere nothing, and yet more impressive

than any more obvious and therefore more vulgar expression of dislike would

have been.

'A little patience, Emily. You will not have me here much longer.'

'I suppose that I am so disagreeable that you cannot live with me. Why

should you go away?'

'My dear Emily, you must not excite yourself. The doctor----'

'I want to know why she said she was going to leave. Has she been

complaining about me to you? What is her reason for wanting to go?'

'We do not get on together as we used to--that is all, Emily. I can please

you no longer.'

'It is not my fault if we do not get on. I don't see why we shouldn't, and

I do not want you to go.'

'Emily, dear, everything shall be as you like it.'

The girl looked at him with the shy, doubting look of an animal that would

like, and still does not dare, to go to the beckoning hand. How frail

seemed the body in the black dress! and how thin the arms in the black

sleeves! Hubert took the little hand in his. At his touch a look of content

and rest passed into her eyes, and she yielded herself as the leaf yields

to the wind. She was all his when he chose. Mrs. Bentley left the room;

and, seeing her go, a light of sudden joy illuminated the thin, pale face;

and when the door closed, and she was alone with him, the bleak, unhappy

look, which had lately grown strangely habitual to her, faded out of her

face and eyes. He fetched her shawl, and took her hand again in his,

knowing that by so doing he made her happy. He could not refuse her the

peace from pain that these attentions brought her, though he would have

held himself aloof from all women but one. She knew the truth well enough;

but they who suffer much think only of the cessation of pain. He wondered

at the inveigling content that introduced itself into her voice, face, and

gesture. Settling herself comfortably on the sofa, she said--

'Now tell me what the doctor said. Did he say I would soon recover? Did he

say that I was very bad? Tell me all.'

'He said that you ought to have a change--that you should go south

somewhere.'

'And you agree with him that I ought to go away?'

'Is he not the best judge?--the doctor's orders!'

'Then you, too, have learnt to hate me. You, too, want to send me away?'

'My dear Emily, I only want to do as you like. You asked me what the doctor

said, and I told you.'

Hubert got up and walked aside. He passed his hand across his eyes. He

could hardly contain himself; the emotion that discussion with this sick

girl caused him went to his head. She looked at him curiously, watching his

movement, and he failed to understand what pleasure it could give her to

have him by her side, knowing, as she clearly did, that his heart was

elsewhere. Turning suddenly, he said--

'But tell me, Emily, how are you feeling? You are, after all, the best

judge.'

'I feel rather weak. I should get strong enough if----'

She paused, as if waiting for Hubert to ask her to finish the sentence. But

he hurriedly turned the conversation.

'The doctor said you looked as if you had not had any sleep for several

nights. I told him that that was strange, for you were taking chloral.'

'I sleep well enough,' she said. 'But sometimes life seems so sad, that I

do not think I shall be able to bear with it any longer. You do not know

how unfortunate I have been. When I was a child, father and mother used to

quarrel always, and I was the only child. That was why Mr. Burnett asked me

to come and live at Ashwood. I came at first on a visit; and when father

and mother died, he said he wished to adopt me. I thought he loved me; but

his love was only selfishness. No one has ever loved me. I feel so utterly

alone in this world--that is why I am unhappy.'

Her eyes filled with tears, and at the sight of her tears Hubert's feelings

were overwrought, and again he had to walk aside. He would give her all

things; but she was dying for him, and he could not save her. No longer was

there any disguisement between them. The words they uttered were as

nothing, so clearly did the thought shine out of their eyes, 'I am dying of

love for you,' and then the answer, 'I know that is so, and I cannot help

it.' Her whole soul was spoken in her eyes, and he felt that his eyes

betrayed him equally plainly. They stood in a sort of mental nakedness. The

woman no longer sought for words to cover herself with; the man did, but he

did not find them. They had not spoken for some time; they had been

thinking of each other. At last she said, and with the querulous perversity

of the sick---

'But even if I wished to go abroad, with whom could I go?'

Hubert fell into the trap, and, noticing the sudden brightness in his eyes,

a cloud of disappointment shadowed hers. 'Of course, with Mrs. Bentley. I

assure you, my dear Emily, that you----'

'No, no, I am not mistaken! She hates me, and I cannot bear her. It is she

who is making me ill.'

'Hate you! Why should she hate you?'

Emily did not reply. Hubert watched her, noticing the pallor of her cheek,

so entirely white and blue, hardly a touch of warm colour anywhere, even in

the shadow of the heavy hair.

'I would give anything to see you friends again.'

'That is impossible! I can never be friends with Julia as I once was. She

has---- No, never can we be friends again. But why do you always take her

part against me? That is what grieves me most. If only you thought----'

'Emily dear, these are but idle fancies. You are mistaken.'

The conversation fell. The girl lay quite still, her hands clasped across

the shawl, her little foot stretched beyond the limp black dress, the hem

of which fell over the edge of the grey sofa. Hubert sat by her on a low

chair, and he looked into the fire, whose light wavered over the walls, now

and again bringing the face of one of the pictures out of the darkness. The

wind whined about the windows. Then, speaking as if out of a dream, Emily

said--

'Julia and I can never be friends again--that is impossible.'

'But what has she done?' Hubert asked incautiously, regretting his words as

soon as he had uttered them.

'What has she done?' she said, looking at him curiously. 'Well, one thing,

she has got it reported that--that I am in love with you, and that that is

the reason of my illness.'

'I am sure she never said any such thing. You are entirely mistaken. Mrs.

Bentley is incapable of such wickedness.'

'A woman, when she is jealous, will say anything. If she did not say it,

can you tell me how it got about?'

'I don't believe any one ever said such a thing.'

'Oh yes, lots have said so--things come back to me. Julia always was

jealous of me. She cannot bear me to speak to you. Have you not noticed how

she follows us? Do you think she would have left the room just now if she

could have helped it?'

'If you think this is so, had she not better leave?'

Emily did not answer at once. Motionless she lay on the sofa, looking at

the grey November day with vague eyes that bespoke an obsession of

hallucination. Suddenly she said, 'I do not want her to go away. She would

spread a report that I was jealous of her, and had asked you to send her

away. No; it would not be wise to send her away. Besides,' she said, fixing

her eyes, now full of melancholy reproach, 'you would like her to remain.'

'I have said before, Emily, and I assure you I am speaking the truth, I

want you to do what you like. Say what you wish to be done, and it shall be

done.'

'Is that really true? I thought no one cared for me. You must care for me a

little to speak like that.'

'Of course I care for you, Emily.'

'I sometimes think you might have if it had not been for that play; for, of

course, I'm not clever, and cannot discuss it with you.... Julia, I

suppose, can--that is the reason why you like her. Am I not right?'

'Mrs. Bentley is a clever woman, who has read a great deal, and I like to

talk an act over with her before I write it.'

'Is that all? Then why do people say you are going to marry her?'

'But nobody ever said so.'

'Oh yes, they have. Is it true?'

'No, Emily; it is not true.'

'Are you quite sure?'

'Yes, quite sure.'

'If that is so,' she said, turning her eyes on Hubert, and looking as if

she could see right down into his soul, 'I shall get well very soon. Then

we can go on just the same; but if you married her, I----'

'I what?'

'Nothing! I feel quite happy now. I did not want you to marry her. I could

not bear it. It would be like having a step-mother--worse, for she would

not have me here at all; she would drive me away.'

Hubert shook his head.

'You don't know Julia as well as I do. However, it is no use discussing

what is not going to be. You have been very nice to-day. If you would be

always nice, as you are to-day, I should soon get well.'

Her pale profile seemed very sharp in the fading twilight, and her delicate

arms and thin bosom were full of the charm and fascination of deciduous

things. She turned her face and looked at Hubert. 'You have made me very

happy. I am content.'

He was afraid to look back at her, lest she should, in her subtle, wilful

manner, read the thought that was passing in his soul. Even now she seemed

to read it. She seemed conscious of his pity for her. So little would give

her happiness, and that little was impossible. His heart was irreparably

another's. But though Emily's eyes seemed to know all, they seemed to say,

'What matter? I regret nothing, only let things remain as they are.' And

then her voice said--

'I think I could sleep a little; happiness has brought me sleep. Don't go

away. I shall not be asleep long.' She looked at him, and dozed, and then

fell asleep. Hubert waited till her breathing grew deeper; then he laid the

hand he held in his by her side, and stole on tiptoe from the room.

The strain of the interview had become too intense; the house was

unbearable. He went into the air. The November sky was drawing into wintry

night; the grey clouds darkened, clinging round the long plain,

overshadowing it, blotting out colour, leaving nothing but the severe green

of the park, and the yellow whirling of dishevelled woods.

'I must,' he said to himself, 'think no more about it. I shall go mad if I

do. Nature will find her own solution. God grant that it may be a merciful

one! I can do nothing.' And to escape from useless consideration, to

release his overwrought brain, he hastened his steps, extending his walk

through the farthest woods. As he approached the lodge gate he came upon

Mrs. Bentley. She stood, her back turned from him, leaning on the gate, her

thoughts lost in the long darkness of autumnal fields and woods.

'Julia!'

'You have left Emily. How did you leave her?'

'She is fast asleep on the sofa. She fell asleep. Then why should I remain?

The house was unbearable. She went to sleep, saying she felt very happy.'

'Really! What induced such a change in her? Did you----'

'No; I did not ask her to marry me; but I was able to tell her that I was

not going to marry you, and that seemed entirely to satisfy her.'

'Did she ask you?'

'Yes. And when I told her I was not, she said that that was all she wanted

to know--that she would soon get well now. How we human beings thrive in

each other's unhappiness!'

'Quite true, and we have been reproaching ourselves for our selfishness.'

'Yes, and hers is infinitely greater. She is quite satisfied not to be

happy herself, so long as she can make sure of our unhappiness. And what is

so strange is her utter unconsciousness of her own fantastic and hardly

conceivable selfishness.... It is astonishing!'

'She is very young, and the young are naturally egotistic.'

'Possibly. Still, it is hardly more agreeable to encounter. Come, let's go

for a walk; and, above all things, let's talk no more about Emily.'

The roads were greasy, and the hedges were torn and worn with incipient

winter, and when they dipped the town appeared, a reddish-brown mass in the

blue landscape. Hubert thought of his play and his love; but not

separately--they seemed to him now as one indissoluble, indivisible thing;

and he told her that he never would be able to write it without her

assistance. That she might be of use to him in his work was singularly

sweet to hear, and the thought reached to the end of her heart, causing her

to smile sadly, and argue vainly, and him to reply querulously. They walked

for about a mile; and then, wearied with sad expostulation, the

conversation fell, and at the end of a long silence Julia said--

'I think we had better turn back.'